Maroon
by satinxsheets
Summary: A collection of Dramione ficlets based on prompts taken from the Livejournal community 64 damnprompts.
1. 2 am

_[Author's Note: I recently joined a Livejournal community entitled 64_damnprompts - some of you may even have heard of it! xP Anyway, I've decided to see if I can make it all the way to the end of the list. This is my FIRST EVER written work to be put up on ffnet, so please go easy on me, guys. xD BTW, I would love any constructive criticism you throw my way! _

_In any case...this is the first of 64 ficlets based on the prompts in **bold**. They're all about DracoxHermione! Cliche, I know, but you gotta admit there's a crapload of potential there. xD Well, without further ado - let's begin. Thanks for reading!]_

**1. 2 a.m.**

He never fell back to sleep when she crept out of his bed to gather her discarded clothing, the smooth curves of her body glowing in the moonlight. Instead, he would lie there, pretending to be asleep, and peek through silver lashes as she snuck out the door.

What he never failed to notice, though, was the look she always threw over her shoulder right before she left, a silent plea for him to wake up, to make her stay. To make her more than a repeated one-night stand.

So one day he did. As she rose, he caught her hand and he never let go.


	2. metaphor

**2. metaphor**

She was the Barbara Gordon to his Richard Grayson. Or so she told him, unable to quell her laughter at the sight of his bewildered [and slightly annoyed] face. Even after being together so long, he still often got lost trying to stumble his way through her jumbled thought processes.

It wasn't until she was long gone - killed in the bitter feud between the Dark Lord and the last members of the Order of the Phoenix - that he finally got around to looking it up in a Muggle library. He had shooed away the librarian the minute she handed him a book...a book detailing the life of a supposed 'Dark Knight.'

Later he would wonder...had she just been trying to tell him that he would look better in tights?

At the time, though, he felt as if simply opening up the book would somehow reveal to him all the answers to the questions he had never gotten to ask. [_Do you love me?_] He was sorely disappointed when – even after poring over all the books in the series – he never discerned a similarity between the tights-clad sidekicks and the two of them. What had she been talking about?

It broke his heart that now he would never know.


	3. sky

**3. sky**

It was the color blue that made him fall in love with her. The azure gown she had donned covered every inch of her skin except for her face and hands, yet the way it clung to her figure had him mesmerized.

And even when she showed up to Runes the next day in her baggy robes, hair as bushy as ever, he still remembered how exquisite she had looked. It was then that he began to notice other things about her as well, such as her preference for violet ink, her tendency to embellish every sentence with those elegant hands, and the way she always buttered one slice of toast and spread orange marmalade on the other.

He hoped that one day she would notice him as well, and see something in him other than a bad childhood memory.


	4. lost scene

**4. lost scene**

It was as if the last page had been torn out of a book – the most crucial part of their story gone forever. He couldn't help but wonder about several things he had _no goddamn right_ to even think about.

Like how she would've looked wearing nothing but his shirt as she brushed her teeth over his bathroom sink.

And how she would've smelled after a long night with him, spent simply memorizing each other, body and soul.

And how she would have tasted after a craved midnight Snickers, a side effect of the child – _his _child - growing within her.

And how she would have sounded singing a lullaby to said child, her voice soft and gentle, the way it always was when she spoke to him as they lay entangled beneath the covers.

And finally, how she would have felt in his arms, wearing that same frothy confection of a wedding dress...the one he had found her in on that godforsaken night [_blood-soaked lace_].

Except... Except in his dreams she was alive and laughing, safe within his embrace...

...not brutally torn apart and scattered about for him to find and piece together, like shards of a broken mirror. Ha. Seven years of bad luck? No. Try an _eternity_.


	5. degrees

**5. degrees**

He was a quick learner, always had been. No, he wasn't a natural genius like she was, but nevertheless through patience and determination and quiet observation, he slow learned every single one of her numerous quirks and habits.

For example, he soon found that underneath those practical black slacks that she wore for work, her world was associated with colors, and her choice of socks was the best way to gauge her mood for the rest of the day. Black, and she was somber and taciturn. Purple, and she was peaceful and calm. Blue, and she was at one with the world. Green, and she was exuberant. Yellow, and she was joyous. Orange, and she was particularly outlandish.

And finally...red. There were degrees of red: Coral meant she was girly. Fire engine meant she was bold and aggressive. But maroon – that told him he was going to be getting very, _very_ lucky tonight. As could only be expected, it soon became his favorite color.


	6. seize the day

**6. seize the day**

"Come on, get up!" She poked at his prone form, which was hidden beneath the heavy comforter.

"Nnnn," was the only reply she received.

"COME ON." She gave him a whack on what she assumed was his rear.

"Too...early..."

She sighed. He was so pathetic. "Today is my first day off this entire year, and you're going to spend it sleeping in? I think _not_. You're coming with me, Malfoy, and we're going to go to the beach--"

Suddenly, he was wide awake and sitting up, one hand rising to sweep through his messy blond hair as sleep-swollen grey eyes peered at her, glittering with excitement. "The beach? Really?"

Her heart seemed to distend almost to the point of exploding at his childlike joy, and she gazed at him with slightly damp, affectionate eyes. "Yes. And we're going to make sandcastles too."

For once, he was ready before she was.


	7. crumble

**22. crumble**

Whenever he felt his heart was breaking, it was she that he'd turn to to put it back together. She'd wake to his mouth on her neck, his saliva and tears wet on her skin, his fingers clutching desperately at her flesh.

Usually, she would hex the shit out of him whenever he found her dozing, sprawled on her back with a musty old textbook open over her face, and gently shook her awake. She _hated_ being awoken. But these were special circumstances. At moments like these –

(vulnerable ones, shameful and innocent and hideous and cathartic and beautiful all at the same time)

– she'd simply hold him, murmuring nonsensical reassurances as he'd thrust again and again into her not quite ready body.

It wasn't pleasant for her - she'd wake up dry and chafed - but it wasn't pleasant for him either. It never was, at times like these. He'd use her, but she never minded. She used him too, as a distraction from the awful hand that they'd been dealt.

Neither of them ever noticed when the other stopped being just a distraction. If they did notice, it didn't change the way they interacted _out there_. At least, it didn't change for a while. Not until another one of those times he woke her in the middle of the night, simply wanting to crawl inside her skin and hide from the world for a while.

He sank into her and she smothered a pained gasp as her body protested the invasion. He didn't move within her this time, just wrapped his arms around her as quiet sobs wracked his body and penetrated the silence of the room.

For once, her nonsensical reassurances coalesced into coherent words, repeated again and again. "I love you, I love you..."


End file.
